Ryan descended from the carriage and brushed at his sleeves, stretching his legs as his gaze sought the distant village rooftops. Marrow climbed down behind him, and they both eyed the throng of carts lining both sides of the narrow road. The faint sound of fiddlers and pipes hinted at a festival in progress.

"The crowd is here for the annual fair," Marrow said from beside him. He and Marrow had spoken little on the trip from Dublin, and Ryan turned as if he'd forgotten the man was with him. "Quite a pack it is, too," the man added, when Ryan did not reply. "I had forgotten that it would be here this time of year."

Ryan observed the distant village with a faintly ironic eye as he considered his lack of timing and considerable bad luck of late. Turning, he flipped two coins to his driver. "We'll need a place to sleep for the night," he said. "Go back down the road and secure a room. I don't care what it costs."

He had no idea where Rachel or David might be. He couldn't reach the base construction camp until he found another way around the town.

Already he was looking for her.

Somewhere a bonfire colored the darkening sky a shimmering orange. A cold breeze whipped through the canopy of trees overhead. Ryan's clothes were damp. The rain had fallen ceaselessly since leaving Memaw's early this morning.

He'd ended up spending the previous night at the cottage, ensconced in Rachel's bed amid a canopy of lavender and lace. Who would have guessed that Rachel had such a romantic side to her life?

"When was the last time you were in Ireland, sir?" Marrow asked, as they walked some distance without speaking.

A drunken couple bumped Ryan's shoulder. "Ten years," he said. "Just before Miss Bailey's grandfather passed away."

"You are somewhat renowned here," Marrow said. "Your name is anyway."

"Why is that?"

"Donally & Bailey feeds a lot of people here."

Narrowly avoiding a pair of overloaded hay carts in his path, he smothered a curse as he stepped in a pile of questionable substance. Like a fool, he was garbed in a charcoal black coat and black trousers as he moved among the wagons, carts, and carriages toward the outskirts of the crowded village. A full moon sat like a bright chalky eye on the mountainous horizon, an ethereal orb against a velvety backdrop. It was a night made for mythical gnomes and fairies if not for the bloodsucking mosquitoes that swarmed around him in droves.

By the time Ryan reached the village he was in the foulest mood and regretted not removing his coat or changing his clothes to something more auspicious, certainly less conspicuous. His shoes alone cost more than most people there made in a year. The music had grown louder, the crowd thicker, the din in his head a buzzing annoyance that boded ill for the object of his hunt.

A buxom woman sashayed up to him carrying a tray laden with cream tarts, a bold smile, and overstated femininity amplified by her low-cut blouse. Leaving Marrow to handle her bold advances, Ryan shouldered through a group of men and followed the booth-lined street that spilled into the open field. The smell of roasting boar mixed with taffy and high meadow grass.

Troubadours roamed the crowded lanes singing of love lost. A roistering party of gamblers threw dice off the path. Beyond the street, thatch-roofed cottages rose up white in the night. Ryan followed the music, and it was there, amid the honeysuckle and thyme, that Marrow caught up to him. A younger crowd had gathered around the bonfire to watch a spirited rigadoon led in time by a quartet of fiddlers and lutes. For a moment, as his gaze scanned the people for a familiar face, Ryan bent to wipe his shoes on a rock. A man spat a long stream of tobacco juice across his path, grinning brashly when Ryan turned his head. Two front teeth were missing.

"Sir..." Marrow said above the noise, pointing, and dragging Ryan's gaze from the apple-faced varlet. "I see Miss Bailey."

Ryan followed the direction of Marrow's hand. The crowd had parted just enough for him to glimpse the high-stepping dancers near the bonfire. Impatient, he still didn't see Rachel, didn't expect to see her dancing, and started to turn away when everything inside him paused on a breath. He slowly straightened.

Rachel was among the circle of dancers.

Except she didn't look like Rachel at all.

Not the Rachel he knew.

The weighty mass of her hair, no longer bound by bun or braid, fell in fiery waves past her waist. A simple blue muslin skirt flowed around her hips and legs, with her saucy steps revealing a pair of slim ankles and calves. But there was nothing simple about the way she danced.

Without conscious thought, Ryan moved past Marrow, his feet carrying him through the crowd until he stood at the edge of the brightly lit circle of dancers. The fiddlers picked up their pace. More couples squeezed past him as they rushed to join the circle. People clapped their hands to the jaunty cadence. Rosy flags of color flushed Rachel's cheeks.

While growing up, she'd always been so staid and bloody virginal to him, never this lustful, pagan woman he was watching dance in abandon. She wore a long-sleeved blouse, her breasts straining the soft fabric, the hot flames of the fire highlighting the crests and exploring the sensual curves of her body. Glowing with carnal radiance, she resembled a flame-haired Gypsy, a nimble forest sprite, her wide carmine mouth set in a smile for the man who had looped his arm around hers. Ryan's gaze went to the man.

"Does Miss Bailey know you are coming?" Marrow asked, over the festive din.

She would know soon enough, he thought, his mood darkening to the strength of a thundercloud.

She would know as soon as he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until her teeth rattled. Rachel, who was not so starchy as he'd always framed her to be in his mind, with her spinster clothes and tightly bound hair. He was beginning to realize he didn't know her at all. She was no spinster, to be sure!

Until that moment, he'd been worried about her. Worried about the hastiness of her departure. About her grandmother. Why she would leave London the way she had. He'd been worried about her life and her future.

She was quite content, he realized. What a calculating little opportunist she had been while with him in London.

She'd lied to him about the Rathdrum project. Lied by omission. Violated his trust by not following protocol. She lied about her reasons for coming to London, departing just as quickly when he'd told her he wasn't going to approve her levee project.

Ryan tightened his jaw as if that alone could contain the sense of betrayal he felt as he watched her laugh, as carefree as a woodland elf.

And she no longer had the barrier of his regret or conscience to protect her. Watching her, Ryan could feel the flames hot on his clothes, feel his chest tighten, as his eyes, glittering with the heat of the fire, followed Rachel around the glen.

Slowly, he became aware that his was not the only interest tracking her movements. Someone else was also watching, he thought as he felt the tug of his gaze, and looked across the flames of the roaring bonfire directly into David's eyes.

So much like his. Dark pools of black and unerringly intimidating.

His brother had been watching him.

For some time, it seemed, judging from the expression pulling David's brows low. No greeting met Ryan' s gaze. No welcoming sentiment. Only rampant censure as if he'd just gotten his knuckles slapped like a disobedient altar boy.

His self-control rapidly deteriorating, Ryan smiled faintly, acknowledging in that one arrogant gesture that he wasn't going to apologize for what was clearly in his thoughts as he watched Rachel dance. She thought she was safe in Ireland.

No way in hell was she safe from him.

Let David read that in his eyes.

As he watched, his brother began working his way through the crowd. But Ryan had already stepped out among the dancers.

The music played to Rachel's soul. The scent of peat, geraniums, and parched earth mixed with the laughter to create a magical sense of well-being. She was glad David had forced her to come, and, breathless, she laughed into her partner's face as he swung her in a circle to the final chords of the jig. He was one of many she'd danced with, and didn't even know his name, only that most of the people there had come from as far as twenty miles to laugh and to drink. He thanked her as a young girl pulled him away for another dance. More couples rushed to join the circle of dancers.

"May I have this dance, Miss Bailey?" Allan Marrow bent over Rachel's hand.

Her breath coming in gasps, too shocked to note that he had taken her hand, Rachel stared in disbelief. "Allan?" She was hot and flushed, her nape damp beneath her hair. "You are supposed to be in Dublin- "

"The Rathdrum contracts have been paid."

The fiddlers struck up another lively gig. "I don't understand," she said, when he took her hands. "How?"They turned directly into Ryan.Rachel's world quit spinning.Dizziness pulled at her equilibrium, and she thought she might faint from the heat. "Ryan..." Her voice was too breathless.

She couldn't imagine why he was in Ireland.

He looked into her flushed features, handed his coat and jacket to Marrow, and pulled her into the

throng of dancers. The shadowy rasp of a beard darkened his jaw.

"Dance with me," he said, in that sensual drawl that might have made her heart beat faster if his eyes hadn't told her other things.Rachel didn't feel well. His presence, his energy raged hotter than the bonfire. "You're...here.""A conclusion you've deduced without spectacles? I'm proud of you, Rache.""What are you doing here?"His eyes dark on hers, he said, "I believe that you invited me."The stinging set-down caused her confidence to waver. His body hot against hers, one hand on her waist, he danced with her to the end of the long circle, then without breaking stride, led her through the crowd.

Rachel felt the wildest sensation of fear.

"Where are you staying?" he asked, over the din of music.

"At the base camp."

Ryan stopped with her at the edge of the crowd. "How far?" His hand on her arm remained uncompromising.

"Follow the river." She pointed to the forest behind him. "Less than a mile. Ryan-""Don't," he said flatly. "When we talk, it won't be with my brother hovering over you."Confused by his actions but not the manner of his tone, Rachel allowed him to pull her through the heavy throng of drunken revelers, past a row of vendors hawking their wares, and into the thinning light that

surrounded the woods. He was escaping David.

"Elsie is with me, as well as my cook." She walked in double time to keep up with him, lest he drag her.

"I need to find them."

"I'm sure David will see to them."

She stumbled over her skirts, but Ryan's grip on her upper arm kept her from falling. "I have yoursatchel," she said, in light of his terrible mood. "I would have sent it back-""You are in a lot of trouble, Rache."A burst of panic filled her.

A jester wearing bells on his floppy hat bounced behind them until, finally ignored, he turned away to annoy another couple. More than one woman had the nerve to watch Ryan as he passed the booths. Her spine snapping straight, Rachel resented the open attention paid to him or that he seemed used to the notice. He appeared out of place, with rich garments that stamped him as indelibly wealthy, his height, and a face handsome enough to turn any woman's head. A dark wing of hair lay carelessly across his forehead, his square jaw set with purpose as he marched her like some recalcitrant child toward the path leading into the woods.

Rachel tripped again, nearly losing a slipper this time, but when she stumbled this time, Ryan lifted her into his arms. All without breaking pace. She hit the wall of his chest, catching her arms around his neck. No man had ever carried her. Her body jolted with a heady primitive sensuality that melted lower in the juncture between her thighs. She felt ridiculous and shivery at once, pressed so intimately against him, her legs dangling over his arms like those of some damsel in distress.

She didn't like the feeling. "Put me down, Ryan."

"No."

"I mean it, Ryan. Put me down." She struggled in earnest as he carried her into the trees. "You are behaving like a...a barbarian."

With that declaration, he threw her over his shoulder. "I swear I'm going to make you pay for this!" She beat his back with her fists. "What is wrong with you?"

"Why don't you tell me? Maybe you can even explain why it is I had to find out everything from someone else."

The sound of the rushing river grew louder and surrounded her with noise. A vision of Ryan throwing her into the water made her scream. Her struggles grew more frantic. He knew that she'd been financing the Rathdrum project out of her own pocket, she thought in panic, or Lord Devonshire had told him the truth about her-or he'd found out that she'd been hiding behind Allan Marrow for two years.

Then Ryan stopped. She felt the flex of his arm against her upper thighs, and she straightened, ready to pummel him. Her breathing harsh in her chest, her palms pressed against his shoulders, she looked down at him, her hair framing his face in a scented bath of spiced apple and cinnamon. She pulled her gaze from his lips to find his eyes dark on hers, a whisper of heat in their depths, his mouth so close they shared the same air.

Caught like a bird in the jaws of a wolf, she was unable to look from his eyes.

They remained frozen by the silence.

Closing her eyes, she let herself experience the sensation of his touch.

"What do you want, Rachel?"

She wanted to breathe again. She wanted his tongue in her mouth. She wanted just once more to feel his arms around her. To feel cherished by him. Even if it wasn't real. Even if it could go no further than tonight.

She had wanted this forever.

She lowered her mouth and kissed him.

Kissed him as she'd tried to do in London. Only this time he didn't pull away.

Parting her lips, he kissed her back with the same shaky urgency that stormed her senses. Her palms slid over the wondrous tug and pull of hardened muscles on his shoulders before her hands climbed into his hair. His skin smelled faintly of smoke and sweet-scented soap. His arm around her thighs loosened. She felt herself sliding down every hardened inch of him until her feet dangled in the air.

"Jaysus, Rachel..." Ryan's voice seduced another groan from her throat.

He felt good pressed against her body, and she met the plunder of his tongue, aware of his powerful arousal. And hers. The rasp of his face against her tender skin.

Even as he walked her into the thick trunk of a tree, and she felt his hands go to her waist and her feet touch the ground, she could not get close enough. Climb high enough against him. Yet still the kiss went on and on, possessively claiming her will, climbing the hills and descending the valleys of their past, destroying barriers that seemed to crumble beneath the onslaught of her emotions.

Once long ago he'd shown her what this would feel like. She didn't know if he remembered.

Then his mouth moved to the long column of her neck, and she heard herself groan his name. Ryan knew how to kiss. He was hard against her. Her head fell back as his mouth played havoc with the pulse beating wildly at her throat. Her eyes sliding open, she stared at the canopy of leaves overhead, lost to the stroke of his hand as he slid his palm up her leg beneath her skirt. She moved again to claim his mouth.

Yet, it was Ryan who pulled away, if only a little distance, enough to slow the flames. He mouthed the tiny hollow on her throat. "Are you and Allan Marrow lovers?"

She choked, taken at once by a fit of coughing. "Are you insane?" she rasped. "He's...he's younger than I am, Ryan."

A low moan escaped her when his hand cupped her breast. "More likely he's just smitten and easily manipulated."

Her heart thundered with uncertainty, for she was back to remembering the probable reason he'd come to Ireland. If the contracts had been paid, then he'd been the one to see it done. He would know that she 'd failed as a manager and a leader, and that she couldn't do anything on her own. "May I please explain -?"

"Explain what, Rache?" He slid his fingers to the nape of her neck, until he cupped each side of her face with his hands.

They stood alone in a wooded copse. The top two buttons on his white shirt were open at his throat. He wore a waistcoat threaded with moonlight in the half darkness of the trees. "Explain why you really came to London?"

She did not fail to notice the implacable warning in his deceptively calm reply and took an involuntary step backward into the tree. She could see a watch fob in his vest pocket. Then she realized he was silent. Waiting for her to speak.

For all that she had to say, nothing came out of her mouth.

"How long have you been hiding behind Marrow and doing the work at D&B?" Ryan finally asked, no anger, no fury in his voice. Only a question behind the words.

She felt her eyes close as his mouth whispered kisses over hers. "You never wanted to know the truth, Ryan, as if that would absolve you from making a decision about me."

His silence told her she had guessed the truth of his reaction.